Tenacious Men
by bgharison
Summary: A series of shorts based on a quote from a Philip Roth interview: ""The drama issues from the assailability of vital, tenacious men with their share of peculiarities who are neither mired in weakness nor made of stone . . ." Mostly Hawaii Five-0. Some chapters are time-stamps for other series. Pairings (if any) will be noted at the top of each chapter.
1. Tenacious Men

A series of shorts prompted by this quote from Philip Roth, in a New York Times interview:

"The drama issues from the assailability of vital, tenacious men with their share of peculiarities who are neither mired in weakness nor made of stone and who, almost inevitably, are bowed by blurred moral vision, real and imaginary culpability, conflicting allegiances, urgent desires, uncontrollable longings, unworkable love, the culprit passion, the erotic trance, rage, self-division, betrayal, drastic loss, vestiges of innocence, fits of bitterness, lunatic entanglements, consequential misjudgment, understanding overwhelmed, protracted pain, false accusation, unremitting strife, illness, exhaustion, estrangement, derangement, aging, dying and, repeatedly, inescapable harm, the rude touch of the terrible surprise — unshrinking men stunned by the life one is defenseless against, including especially history: the unforeseen that is constantly recurring as the current moment."

Mostly H50, although it's possible some other fandoms will find their way here. Some chapters are time-stamps for other series.


	2. Blurred Moral Vision

**_A bit of an episode tag for H50 S9E02_**

 _We were just following orders . . ._

 _Following orders . . ._

 _Orders . . ._

The words echoed in Steve's mind. Had been, all afternoon. All evening. And now . . . half the night. He sighed and threw the tangled covers aside. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he grabbed for a tshirt and pulled it on, mindless of it being inside out.

He headed down the stairs on autopilot, not bothering to turn on lights in the house he knew from childhood. He'd been through a lot with this house, in this house - repaired bullet holes in the sheetrock with his own hands, healed from bullet wounds in his flesh . . . recovered with part of Danny's liver inside him. The house was equal parts nightmare and comfort but tonight it was neither; tonight it prison walls that echoed his recriminating thoughts.

He stood at the edge of the water, chewing on his lip. The sound of the waves lapping against the shore, the scent of salt, the feel of sand beneath his feet - all reassuring, but not enough. Not enough to trust himself to slip into the water and be able to hold it together, be able to not confuse the ocean with the tank and . . . Danny wasn't here to pull him out.

He settled uneasily into the old wooden chair, slumped forward with his elbows on his knees, staring out unseeing at the water. He replayed the missions in his mind, one at a time. How much had he known? How much had he ignored?

 _We were just following orders . . ._

Greer's face, mocking him.

 _Following orders . . ._

Every mission. Every set of orders. Every set of intel and then . . .

The next set of intel. Sometimes immediately, sometimes weeks or months after. Sometimes it was good news: progress toward peace, toward democracy.

Sometimes . . . it was more complicated.

He rewound the complicated ones. How much had he known, going in? How much had he ignored?

When did he question what he and his team were doing and when did he just . . . do it?

He was vaguely aware of the sky growing lighter but his thoughts were a hemisphere away. His stomach felt like lead. At what point had he . . . _known_?

 _Following orders . . ._

The op in Venezuela? That drop in the little village a few klicks outside the Stan?

 _Following orders . . ._

 _Marrakesh._

 _God, Marrakesh . . ._

A soft brush across his shoulder, a sensation of sudden warmth radiating at his collarbone, had him launching out of his chair, spinning, hands raised defensively.

"Whoa, easy, Steve."

It was Danny, standing in front of him, a coffee in each hand.

The lead weight lurched from his stomach to his throat, leaving him unable to speak.

"You with me?" Danny's eyes were crinkled in concern. Steve hadn't missed it, those little glances, constant since that damned tank. He dropped his eyes, unable to meet Danny's gaze. He didn't deserve Danny's concern, his loyalty, his friendship, not after . . .

 _If Danny knew, if he knew . . ._

"Steve?"

He managed to get a shaky breath past the vice-grip of guilt in his chest.

"Yeah, sorry." He patted absently at his empty pocket. Damn. His phone - "Sorry, we got a case?"

"No. Had to drop Gracie early for practice, wanted to come by . . . you didn't answer your phone."

A cup of coffee entered his line of vision and he took it automatically, fingers curling around the warmth.

"You wanna tell me what's going on?"

 _No, God, no, Danny, if you knew . . . you'd never forgive me._

"Excuse me, what?"

Shit. He hadn't meant to say that out loud.

Danny's hand was on his shoulder, and Steve, God help him, he didn't deserve it but he leaned into it anyway, unable to deny himself this small comfort.

Danny sighed. "Sit down." He steered Steve into the chair as easily as he would have Charlie.

Steve sat, hunched, his elbows back on his knees, his hands wrapped around the coffee. It felt like the only source of heat against the chill that seemed to wrap around him.

"This about Greer?"

"Yeah. No. It's -" Steve stopped, took a sip. The coffee was hot and perfectly bitter, and it helped more than he had any right for it to.

"Classified," Danny suggested.

Steve turned that over in his mind. Classified. He could, technically, hide behind that indefinitely. It was, of course, classified - beyond classified. It was so classified it was _you will be disavowed_.

Danny cleared his throat.

Steve took another sip of coffee.

"So, the Special Activities Division," Danny said slowly, "started somewhere around the time of the Vietnam War. Excuse me, the Vietnam conflict. Joint operations between the CIA and the Navy. The Navy, specifically, not necessarily the other branches but -" he made a dismissive gesture. "Around the time politics, and war, further blurred previously clear lines."

Steve hazarded a glance at Danny and was rewarded with that soft, fond smile. The one he didn't deserve, had never deserved.

"What, you think I meet people like Joe and Doris and don't start doing some bedtime reading?"

Steve chuckled. Of course Danny would have looked into it. His curiousity was second only to his sarcasm.

"And black helicopters are real," Danny stated.

Steve's snapped his head up at that, intrigued..

"You said it, like a throw-away comment, one day. I was joking, you were on the phone, you turned around and said to me, 'They are. Black helicopters are real.' So I figure, you've been up close and personal. With the black helicopters. And with . . . other stuff."

Steve looked down again and nodded.

Danny waited, sipping his coffee. The light was stronger, now, the reflection sparkling off the water.

"It made sense, perfect sense, the first couple ops," Steve said. "I never questioned what they asked us to do. Extractions, usually, people caught where - where they shouldn't have been. Americans."

Danny nodded.

"Then a couple times we were taking . . . taking people where they weren't allowed to go, and . . . the way it was explained to me, it was just . . . it was more expedient. There were time-sensitive issues at stake and going through . . . usual channels just wouldn't . . ."

Danny lips pressed into a thin line.

"Yes, well, Doris and Joe certainly were models of expediency."

"Danny," Steve sighed. He knew Danny's feelings about Joe were mixed at best. And Doris? Danny had stopped trying to hide his outright disgust for her. The coffee churned into acid in his stomach. _If Danny knew . . ._

"Hey. What's going on in that head of yours, hunh?"

Steve took a shuddering breath and shook his head. He couldn't tell Danny. He couldn't _not_ tell Danny. What a clusterfuck. They sat in silence . . . strangely comfortable, but after eight years together . . .

"Ah. You think I couldn't understand, that I couldn't possibly relate to the positions you've been in." Danny took a long, thoughtful sip of his coffee. "You think that someone who shot Marco Reyes in a basement in Columbia couldn't possibly find a shred of empathy for a young Naval officer assigned joint missions with the SAD."

Steve was prepared for Danny's disappointment, fully expected his anger, had braced for losing his respect. He hadn't anticipated his understanding, and he had no idea how to accept it. If he stopped, stopped right now, stood up and went into the house and got ready for work, he could leave it there. He could leave it vague, ambiguous . . . just like the ops. Danny had given him an out, given him absolution, why wouldn't that be enough?

 _Why couldn't that be enough?_

Catherine knew every bit of it, slept easy every night, and chose a life in the shadows.

Lynn . . . didn't know any of it. Didn't understand anything about his military past . . . didn't want to know why he woke up screaming. She wanted to help, in her way, but she couldn't bear to know. And Steve was just too damn tired to work that hard to keep her from knowing.

Danny. Danny knew, hell, had been there for a lot of it, but he didn't know the things Catherine knew, the things that he had done before Five-0.

"You don't know all of it, Danny, and when you do, I'm afraid . . . "

"When."

Steve looked at Danny, trying to read his expression. It was one he'd seen a thousand times: patient, fond, almost amused.

"You said, 'when you do', not 'if you do'."

"I did?"

"You did. You've already decided you're going to tell me. So, tell me."

Danny's hand was on his shoulder again, squeezing gently. When had Danny pulled his chair closer? Steve stared at the water, sparkling even brighter now, but not glaring. A perfect morning in paradise. The sand under his feet was soft, cool. It had been so different, elsewhere: harsh, blistering hot. How had he ever thought he could come home, really? Was that why Catherine had ultimately chosen the CIA over making a life with him? Had she known all along, that people like them, people who had blurred the lines of right and wrong so many times, could never really come home?

"Hey." Danny was speaking softly, so softly. "Hey, babe, come on."

"I was still in intelligence," Steve blurted out. "So after the ops, sometimes there'd . . . I would read reports, or I'd hear . . . sometimes I had no idea what we were doing, Danny, it was like delivering a package. We called it that, you know? The package. It was, you know, a person, or a team. I was so - my job was to keep people alive. The - the person, the team. My team. I was focused on keeping people alive, I didn't . . . if I'd focused on what we were doing or why, I could have made mistakes. Fatal mistakes."

"I get that."

"But then after . . . I'd find out that, maybe, a faction suddenly had weapons, supplies . . . things that were in the best interests of our country, Danny."

He sat back in his chair and looked at Danny, still studying him with that same patient expression. Even his hands were still, which was more than a little unnerving.

"And I thought, back channels - if the end result is that, you know, Mary could sleep safe and sound at night, then . . . then it was okay. If it was in the interest of freedom and democracy. Right?"

"The American Way."

"Yeah. But then . . . sometimes, no matter how I tried to spin it, I just - I just couldn't. I would come back from risking my life, damn near getting my team killed, only to find out that we'd - that I'd - it was . . . strategic. I'm sorry, it's - I can't -"

"It's classified."

"Before I got tagged to focus on anti-terrorism, before I was put on the trail of the Hesse brothers, there was an op. We - my team - we were responsible for security, for protecting a convoy. Trucks, seven of them, across lines. I was told it was medical supplies, medicines, MREs, baby formula. Diapers. The village had been cut off, surrounded by fighting. It took days. There were . . . there were IEDs. Snipers. We lost a driver, I lost two guys, but we got those supplies safely to a village, a village that we were told was sympathetic to - well. We were told they were the good guys."

Danny nodded.

"A couple weeks later, I - the neighboring village was . . . obliterated. There were pictures, it was . . . there was nothing left. Burned. Bodies in the street. Men, women. Children. God . . . babies."

"I'm so sorry," Danny murmured.

"By the end of the year . . . there was a pipeline. Through what used to be that village. We'd delivered weapons. We'd delivered weapons, to supply a civil war between villages, and . . . they took those weapons and wiped out an entire village. Genocide. I think - I think I participated in genocide."

"You couldn't have known," Danny said softly.

"I didn't look in the trucks. By that time, I'd . . . I'd learned it was just . . . easier. If I didn't look. If I didn't know."

Steve stood up, dropping his coffee gently into the sand at his feet.

"God help me, Danny, somewhere along the line I'd learned not to look."

Danny was silent. Steve couldn't bring himself to look, couldn't stand the thought of Danny's disappointment reflected on his face. He stumbled toward the water's edge. The sparkling morning sunshine became flashes of muzzle fire, too-bright desert sun reflecting off truck mirrors. He closed his eyes. It was worse. Images, still in horrifying detail . . . bodies in the street, none of them in uniform, none of them moving. Small bodies, only partially visible under the bodies of their parents, who died trying -

He hadn't realized he was retching until he was on his knees, a thin stream of bile spilling into the water, washing away with the tide. He sat back with a thud, his feet at the very edge of the water, foam seeping up over his toes and then soaking into the sand. He felt a shadow on his back, and a water bottle was slowly moved into his field of vision. Danny knew - he'd learned early on, hadn't he? - not to startle Steve. He took the bottle gratefully, swished a mouthful and spat into the sand, then a cautious sip. He was shocked when Danny - Danny, of the _I hate this island, I hate this sand, sand gets everywhere, everywhere, Steven_ \- sat down next to him. He'd discarded his shoes and socks, and fetched water - how much time had Steve lost, he wondered, absently worried, losing time - losing time, after that damn tank, that could be bad -

"Steve."

"I'm sorry, Danny, I'm so sorry -"

"Hey. Hey, you listen to me. This whole . . . damn Greer, damn the CIA, and fuck the SAD. Fuck them for how they used you. Manipulated you."

Steve shook his head. "I should have known, Danny, I should have . . . I chose not to know."

"Maybe. Okay? Maybe, at some points, on some level, you did. You know what else you chose?"

Steve stared, unseeing, at the horizon.

"You chose to put your Navy career - your brilliant, promising, Navy career - on the slow track, and you chose to put down some roots, run a task force. You've helped people, Steve. You've built a life and a - a family here. Out of the shadows. In the light." Danny's hands gestured expansively at the brightening sky.

Steve felt his lips quirk up. "Out of the shadows, in the light? That's poetic."

"Damn straight, I am eloquent. I am also right. Maybe you didn't make a good choice on that operation. Maybe you made some bad calls on a few. That doesn't make you a bad person."

Steve pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to block out the unwelcome images.

"Where are you right now, in that head of yours?"

Steve felt his breath coming in shallow pants. He tried to slow it, tried to fend off the impending panic that had been clawing at the edges of his mind since the pool.

Danny's hand reached around him, landing strong and solid on his far shoulder, his arm warm across his back.

He broke, finally - not from the torture, recent and past, not from the years of guilt, but from the weight of Danny's compassion.

When he could breathe again, deep gasping breaths, Danny was still holding on to him, grounding him.

"Okay, here's what's gonna happen," Danny said. "I'm calling Lou and the kids, they're taking care of things today. You're getting into a hot shower while I make you some coffee and decent food. Then I'm gonna change clothes because, sand, Steven, I have sand in places."

Steve felt a laugh forcing its way through his still painfully clenched chest.

"And then . . . we're going to Tripler, or Pearl Hickam, or wherever you need to go. You're going to talk to someone about this."

"Danny, I -"

"Someone other than me, someone who has clearance, maybe, if that's what they need to have. Someone who is trained, specially trained, to help you sort out all the crap. And I don't mean just the ops, I mean . . . you're trying, Steve, but since that ship, and that damn tank, and that fucking god-awful red rubber suit . . . I can see it, you're not back with us. Not all the way. Not yet."

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. He could fool himself and everyone else, but not Danny. Never Danny.

"Rather just talk to you," he mumbled.

"What do you think we've been doing this morning, you schmuck? Of course you can talk to me. You'll talk to me after. You'll tell me all about it, about what the doctor or therapist or whoever says, and what we can do to help. Burn off some of this nervous energy of yours putting another couple coats of poly on the bar while I try that carbonara thing."

Steve shifted uneasily. "We can just go back to the palace, we need to -"

"No."

Steve glared at Danny. "Who died and put you in charge?"

"You came pretty damn close. Come on, stop bitching, call and set up whatever. And help me up, my knee's killing me."

Steve let Danny drive. He was fine, he was sure of it, except - he had lost at least a couple minutes, at least a couple times, that morning. And he'd never admit it, not in a million years, but there was a sense of relief, in Danny taking over. Danny had accepted the keys with nothing more than a quirked eyebrow.

"Why are you doing this?" Steve asked. He had been staring out the window, but he turned to look at Danny, waiting for his response.

"Come on, you're my partner, I love you," Danny said.

"I really screwed up, Danny. People died. Innocent people. Even the Geneva Convention doesn't allow 'following orders' as an excuse."

Danny shook his head. "I don't think you're in that territory, Steve, not even then. Your orders were to deliver medical supplies and food, right?"

Steve thought that over for a moment.

"But it was weapons. It wasn't medical supplies."

"But your orders, your orders were to deliver medical supplies, to protect the trucks and the drivers. Your orders weren't to deliver weapons."

"I should have checked."

"Yeah. Maybe you should have. Maybe by that time you were getting a little too comfortable with some sketchy stuff. Maybe I should have tried to bring Reyes in, take him into custody. We'll always live with maybes, Steve."

"Reyes was different. Danny, I know - I know how you feel about the CIA, about this kind of thing. I don't understand how you can be okay, how you can be -" his throat closed up, moisture pricking hot in his eyes.

Danny pulled over to one of the hundreds of overlooks. Not his overlook, they weren't on that road, and this view was of the city, not the water.

"What are you doing?"

"Get out. We have time, get out."

Steve sighed and unfolded his legs from the passenger seat. He paced by the open car door. Danny pointed to a low ledge.

"Geez, Danny." Steve rolled his eyes but he sat, anyway.

Danny stood in front of him, arms crossed.

"How I can be what?" he said, looking down at Steve as if he was a suspect.

"What?"

"You said, you didn't understand how I would be okay, how I could be . . . what?"

"Come on -"

"How I could still be your friend? I told you, I love you. You think talking more openly about stuff that I already assumed, that I've assumed since I read your file the day your father was murdered, found out you were a SEAL and also in Navy intelligence, is gonna change that?"

"Well - yeah," Steve said. He spread his hands out wide, open. "Yeah, Danny, it - it usually does. It always has. Why do you think I live like a monk, hunh?"

Danny stared at him.

"You familiar with the concept of unconditional love, Steve? Hunh? You seem to be able to extend it to everyone else. It's that hard for you to understand that it could apply to you?"

Steve swallowed hard.

"Just because no one in your life has loved you unconditionally, doesn't mean you don't deserve it." Danny sounded fierce, almost angry.

"So, we're still good?" Steve asked. He could feel himself almost daring to be hopeful that he hadn't lost Danny's friendship and respect, maybe not completely. "Still with . . . with Five-0 and the restaurant and . . ."

"And?"

"And the kids?" Steve asked, so softly that Danny had to lean forward to hear him.

"The - what do you mean, the kids?"

"You're still . . . okay with me being around the kids, being part of Gracie and Charlie's life? Even knowing . . ."

"Steve. Shit, Steve, yes, with the kids, what are you - yes, okay? Yes. We love you, my kids think you're a superhero and a role model, God help me. They love you. I love you. We're not going anywhere. Okay?"

Steve nodded, trying to push down another rush of emotion threatening to overwhelm him.

"Okay?"

Steve nodded again.

"And I was wrong."

Steve looked at him, confused.

"Gracie, Charlie, Joanie. Mary. They love you, unconditionally. Grover. Tani and Junior. Right?"

"I - yeah. I guess - yeah." Steve cleared his throat. "Not . . . not like you, though, Danny."  
"Yeah, well, obviously," Danny said, grinning, cocky and smug. His smile was incandescent. It warmed Steve, lit a flicker of hope in him.

"Gimme the keys." Steve held out his hand, snapped his fingers impatiently.

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?"

"Yeah, your driving makes me sick, it's good you pulled over. I'm driving. And after this - we're not working on the carbonara."

"Oh, no?" Danny asked. He slid into the passenger seat while Steve made an obvious and deliberately exaggerated movement of sliding the driver seat back.

"No. We're working on the pineapple chicken pasta dish."

"We - no. No, Steven."

"Yes, Daniel. I'm telling you, it could be a signature dish."

"Signature - what, my grandmother's manicotti is going to be the signature dish."

"I'm just saying, this is Oahu, a signature dish . . ."


	3. Drastic Loss

**Episode tag for H50 S6E25**

"It started a week after Malia's memorial," Chin said, shaking his head at Grover, who was still half laughing, half crying. "I'd be lying there, wide awake, my heart just . . . bleeding out. The phone would ring, and it would be McGarrett."

"Middle of the night," Grover said.

"Two, three am. I answer the phone and it's Steve. _Hey, Chin, watcha doin?_ Like, like he's giving me the option to say sleeping. You know? Except, of course, I wasn't, and he knew that. So then he says, every time - 'You wanna get some coffee?' So he meets me at the diner, and he just - sits there with me. Sits there, quiet, reading the paper. So I didn't have to be alone."

"That's McGarrett. How long did that go on?"

"A long, long time. Once I started getting my bearings again, we would talk, sometimes. About the team, about how the kids were doing -"

"Our kids?"

"Yeah, your kids, Danny's kids . . . what, you think we come to their school plays and their games out of some sense of obligation? About Mary. About Malia. We talked a lot about Malia. Well, I talked, he listened."

Grover nodded.

"And one night, I said to him, I don't know how I'm going to get over this. He poured me some more coffee, and says, 'Catherine asked me the same thing - how does anyone get over something like this.'"

"And I say to him, what'd you tell her? Because I'm hoping, maybe he has some answers, you know?"

Grover reached out, wrapped a huge hand around Chin's shoulder.

"And McGarrett says, 'You don't.' And then I knew, that's how he knew I was awake in the middle of the night, so lonely I could just . . . just die, you know? Just give up. And - then I look at him, really look at him, and I realized, all these weeks, he's sitting there, keeping me company, because he knows how it feels. He knows the emptiness, the way you feel like it's just going to swallow you up, because he's been through it."

"I didn't know. Man."

"So I asked him, you know, if he wants to talk about it. And of course, he says, 'Nah, I'm here for you, brah.' But . . . you know, I can't imagine, people just forgetting about Malia. Yeah, sometimes it hurts to talk about her, to remember, but . . . the idea that the world will just move on without her, that's even worse, you know? And I'm realizing . . . none of us know about this - this drastic loss of Steve's."

"Always more concerned about everyone else's pain."

"Exactly. So, I tell him, no, let me help you keep her memory alive, just like you're helping me do with Malia."

"So he told you?"

"Yeah, he did. And - I mean, it's not my story to tell. It's very private. But . . . it helped. I like to think it maybe helped him, too."

Grover started to reply, but there was a flurry of activity in the waiting room.

"The surgeon," Chin said.

They rushed to join the others.

Steve hurt. He hurt so bad, in so many places, it all blurred together into one giant ball of agony. And the thing of it was, he could tell that it was being dulled, that he wasn't even feeling the brunt of it. Thank God for drugs, but what even, what had he done this time?

"What have you gone and done this time, Steven?"

He gasped, and tried to open his eyes. He couldn't, not exactly, but he could still see her.

"Ju - Julia?"

She smiled. No. Strike that. She beamed. She glowed.

"How?"

And then he realized. Only one way.

"I'm dead? I'm dead."

She laughed, and it was as gorgeous as he remembered. Pure. Her laugh was joy and innocence.

"You're not dead, Steven."

"I think I want to be dead."

"The world doesn't need you dead."

He groaned, or thought he did. Someone did.

"No, I mean it," he insisted. "I'm tired. I'm done. I want to be with you, Julia."

"Ah. So you haven't forgotten me?"

"Never. Not ever."

He felt a gentle wave of warmth wash over him, and he wanted to let it carry him away. If there really was a God, and an afterlife, maybe it would carry him to Julia. He felt a tear slip from the corner of his eye and track into his hair, but he couldn't lift his hand to wipe at it.

"It doesn't matter, you know, if someone does see a tear, Steven. You let Chin Ho Kelly see. It helped heal him."

"Malia?"

"It doesn't work exactly that way, she's not in my presence, but yes, I know about Malia."

"So . . . I wouldn't be with you?" That was disappointing.

"Even if it worked that way, it's not time."

"You're here, now, so maybe it does work that way. Maybe we could make it work that way."

"I came while you were between breaths, between heartbeats, Steven. Sometimes there's a window. Sometimes there's this wonderful, terrible window and because you are such an idiot - such an idiot - I've been at this window before. This is just the first time you've noticed. Maybe because Joe isn't screaming at you this time."

"So I am dead."

"No, silly. Well. Maybe for a second or two. Enough for a window, not enough for me to stay or you to come with me. But that's okay. There's so much more for you to do here."

"The team needs me."

"Yes, but there's so much more - you're not getting it. For _you_ to _do_. Not for you to do for other people. For yourself. There's love, and family. Things you haven't had yet. Things you deserve."

"I loved you, Julia."

"Yes, but you didn't get to keep me. There's more for you, and you get to keep it, and enjoy it."

"Family?"

"Ohana. More and more, growing and expanding from the little ohana you built for yourself."

He hesitated. He wanted to stay here, stay wrapped in this warmth, stay in the glow that was Julia, that was . . . something else, too, something familiar. But already, he felt a sensation of coolness slipping into his veins, sliding up his spine.

"I'm - Catherine?"

Julia laughed again. He couldn't see her now, but he picture her, the sun sparking off her hair, in wild tumbles of waves around her face, like it had that first time he met her. And he could hear her, that laugh. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch up, even though he wasn't entirely sure why.

"Oh, Steven, really? You know you prefer blondes. I thought you would have sorted that out by now."

Danny was relieved - so relieved - when he woke up first. He dreaded breaking the news to Steve, that he was the proud owner of part of Danny's liver, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had to be there, had to be present, when Steve was informed. Now, though, as he glanced anxiously at the clock on the wall for the third time in - fifteen minutes, how had it only been fifteen minutes, it felt like hours - he was starting to look forward to telling Steve, only because it meant that Steve would be awake, and confused, and even in pain, but that seemed better than the other worst-case-scenarios currently queing up in Danny's muddled head.

Steve's hand twitched, and he made a soft, low sound of pain.

Danny watched, holding his breath. An expression moved over Steve's face . . . peace. Danny had never seen him so completely at peace - every furrow, every hint of scowl, of concentration, just - gone. His lips moved soundlessly, his hand twitching again. And then, Danny watched, his heart clenching painfully in his chest, as a tear slipped out of Steve's tightly closed eyes and rolled down across his temple, disappearing into the flat pillow beneath his head.

"Steve?" Danny's voice was hoarse. Steve didn't respond.

Danny watched, anxiety and curiousity alternately prompting him to reach for the call button and then stop. Steve was frowning now, a version of aneurysm face, and Danny held his breath.

"Julia."

The name was breathed out on a sigh, and if Danny hadn't been perfectly silent and completely focused, he would have missed it. He reached for the call button, eyes still on Steve's face, and he - there, he was sure of it, Steve's lips were quirking up in that soft half-smile of his.

"Steve?" Danny tried again, and this time, Steve's head listed toward the sound of his voice. "Steve, you with me?"

His eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, and then Steve's eyes were opening, slowly.

There was a familiar sound. A voice, calling his name. Danny.

 _Danny._

If Danny was with him, too, did that mean - he turned his head toward the sound, searching. He fought his way to the surface, forced his eyes open. Sunlight was filtering in through a window behind Danny, lighting his inexplicably tousled hair and making it glow, all golden waves. There was an oxygen cannula, and an IV line - not dead, then, very unlikely that Danny was dead. But hurt.

"How bad?" Steve croaked out.

"I've called for the doctor, you're gonna be okay, Steve."

"No. You?"

"I'm fine, it's okay. Just - there's a lot to explain, but we're both gonna be fine."

"Both - alive?"

Danny chuckled. "Yeah, we're both alive."

Steve let his eyes drift back shut, but no . . . seeing Danny was better. He grunted and forced his eyes back open.

Danny was half-smiling at him. "It's okay. Not going anywhere."

Steve's eyelids slipped closed again, against his will, but with his face turned toward Danny, he could still sense the warmth, the light.

"You are not gonna believe . . ." Danny said, and he laughed. And even though his breath hitched with pain - Steve had to figure out why, soon - it was so perfect, so . . . _familiar_. And Danny was still talking - of course, he would be - ". . . so the thing is, I guess, you get to keep me . . ."


	4. Illness

Way, waaaaay back in August, I had a lovely request in my inbox for a "Steve having some sort of run-of-the-mill sickness, like the flu or bronchitis or something? (pref. in the Steve/Jax universe" and, well, here we are three months later . . . the muse has been infuriatingly uncooperative, and I'm still shaking off the rust.

This is part of the Tenacious Men series, but it's part of the Jersey universe and will probably only make sense if you're familiar with that context.

Timestamp for A Little Piece of Jersey, set after Chapter 28 Court Day and before Chapter 29 Jade. Jax has recently unpacked her few belongings from Jersey and officially lives with Steve, but still works for HPD SWAT.

*#*#*#*

 _Biological warfare._

That was the only logical explanation. His throat was on fire, his eyes felt like they were bleeding. His ears were alternately clogging and popping - wait. Concussion grenade? He did ache, all over, could be from a massive impact - an ungodly pain that made his muscles twitch restlessly, fruitlessly seeking comfort and relief in movement. He tried to take a deep breath, and pain flared in his lungs. Bad. This was bad, whatever it was. He needed to find Jax, find the rest of the team. Gathering all of his will, he forced his eyes open. At first, the light was blinding, and he swallowed, painfully, against a wave of nausea, waiting for his eyes to adjust so he could determine his surroundings.

He was in his bedroom.

Nothing made sense.

He reached for Jax, her presence in his bed recent, and welcome, and already nothing was right if she wasn't there. Her side of the bed was cool.

"Hey, you with me?"

Jax's voice was soft, concerned. He tried turning his head in the vague direction of the sound, his eyes struggling to refocus. She was moving toward him, from the bathroom, a folded washcloth in hand.

"Wass'matter?" he rasped. "We get - hit? You - okay?"

"Hmm, I'm fine," she said. The washcloth was pressed against his forehead and it felt wonderful. "You, though, were restless all night, and you're burning up. Let me check your leg. It should be healed, but you might have an infection."

"Not - concussion grenade?"

"No, there was no concussion grenade." She untangled the sheets from his legs, and then her cool fingers were tracing over the wound from the fiasco of Gracie's field trip turned hostage situation. "Your leg looks absolutely fine, no infection. It's not that. I - I think maybe you have the flu."

"I don' get flu."

"Steve. Everyone, eventually, gets the flu."

He processed that for a moment. "Nev'r had a domestic flu," he amended. He closed his eyes. Things were definitely better with his eyes closed.

"Of course not, you're a Navy SEAL."

He liked the way she said that, with the slight emphasis on Navy. Like Danny. Must be a Jersey thing. He could listen to her rant all day. Every day. Forever. In fact, she was still going now.

" . . . have to be something exotic, right? But I think, in this case, you've succumbed to a garden variety virus, homegrown right here on Oahu. I'm sorry."

He reached out, aimless, and fumbled for her hand. She met him halfway. Her hand was so small, and blessedly cool, wrapped in his.

"Gimme a minute, I'll ge' dressed," he said. "Bring me Motrin?"

"You are not going to work!"

"Thought . . . drive me to th' hospital." His voice sounded pitiful in his own ears.

"The - you don't have to go to the hospital," she said. He forced his gritty eyes open to look up at her. "You don't have to go to the hospital for the flu. Not unless it develops into something like pneumonia, or you get severely dehydrated."

"Stay here?"

"Yeah, you can stay here. There's nothing they can do for a virus except treat the symptoms, and I can manage that."

"Your shift -"

"I'll call in. Trust me, if you have it, I'm likely to be right behind you. Nobody wants me sharing this."

"'M'sorry."

"Shh, it's okay. Lemme go call. I'll be right back, with something to drink and some toast or something, and we'll tackle the fever first, go from there. Okay?"

He nodded, closing his eyes again, taking stock. Everything hurt, sure, but nothing was bleeding or broken. Maybe, if he could just get up, get moving. Get a shower . . .

*#*#*#*#*

Jax had the phone on speaker while she fixed a tray to take back upstairs.

"Captain Grover - whatca got, Nolan?"

"Hey, Captain. I'm gonna need to trade off my shift today."

"You okay?"

"I'm fine, sir - it's Steve. He seems to have been slammed by a virus. He's really bad . . . and since, um - well. I've already been exposed, so . . ."

"You been swapping bodily fluids, and now you keep those germs on that side of the island. Ain't nobody got time for an epidemic."

Jax had expected Lou to be understanding, but she still sighed in relief.

"Thanks, Captain, I -"

There was a crash from above.

"Nolan? What was -"

"Gotta go, Cap, I think Steve just took a header -"

Jax shoved the phone in her pocket and took the stairs two at a time. She hit the landing and skidded a couple of steps into the bedroom.

"Steve?!"

The bathroom door was ajar. Jax rushed to it, images of Steve unconscious and bleeding flitting through her mind.

"'M'kay," he said, looking up at her from the bathroom floor, where he sat, forearms on his knees, leaning back against the counter. The medicine cabinet was ajar and several bottles of pills were on the floor. "Got dizzy."

"What were - never mind."

A noise from her pocket caught her attention.

"Shit, sorry, Captain." She fished the phone out of her pocket.

"The hell? Do I need to send a bus?"

"No, sir, sorry. We're okay. I'll, ah - well, I might not be in for a couple of days. I'll log in and catch up on all my incident reports."

"Like I said, keep your germs to yourself, Nolan. And yell if you need anything. I'll drop soup on the porch, I'm not coming in there."

Jax chuckled as she ended the call. Hands on her hips, she looked down at Steve. He was scowling up at her, his eyes glazed with fever. She felt her smile turning soft as she crouched down next to him.

"Oh, babe," she sighed, as she reached out and pulled his shoulders gently toward her, until his forehead was resting on her collarbone. He groaned softly as she scritched her fingers through his sweaty hair.

"What were you trying to do, hunh?" she asked.

"Get Tylenol," he mumbled. "Shower. 'M'gross."

"Okay, well, I was getting you something for fever, along with some fluids and toast, remember?"

He grunted.

"So, that first, and then we'll discuss a shower."

"Bossy."

"Yeah, damn straight."

His soft sigh against her shoulder told her that he really, truly, didn't mind.

There was an actual, god-honest tray, perched neatly on his nightstand. Steve didn't even know he - _they_ \- had a tray. Underneath the haze of fever and the aching behind his eyes that just would not stop, he felt a satisfaction in the idea of her puttering around his - _their_ \- kitchen, poking in cabinets that he'd never bothered to use.

"It was in the cabinet with the cookie sheets," Jax said, following his line of vision. "It's - it's okay that I used it?"

"'Course," he mumbled around a piece of toast. It was spread with peanut butter, and honey, and it was the perfect combination for his throat. "This'ss good."

"Just toast," she said, shrugging. "Protein, carbs. Don't want your Tylenol coming back up. Make sure you drink all of the tea. Then you should be able to get in the shower without keeling over."

He wrapped his hand around the cup and nodded. It smelled wonderful, and the steam soothed the ache behind his eyes. Jax sat down on the edge of the bed, thermometer in hand. She tucked it carefully into his ear, chuckling when he scowled and made an instinctive, then aborted, movement to bat her hand away. A few seconds passed before he heard the beep, and then Jax was making that universal tsking sound and shaking her head.

"One-oh-two, Steve," she said. "No wonder you feel so awful."

Her hand settled cool on his cheek, and he leaned into it instinctively.

"You still want that shower?"

He nodded. Everything ached, and he longed for the pressure of hot water on his muscles.

"You're not going to spin out on me?"

He shook his head. Carefully, this time, so that the room didn't tilt. Jax grinned and took the cup from his hand, replacing it carefully on the tray. Her hand was extended to his, and he gripped around her forearm, felt her strong grip on his wrist. She'd squared her hips and planted her feet, and in his weakness and shakiness, he could feel the compact strength of her as she braced to pull him up from the bed. He stood, pausing a moment to make sure he had his bearings, and he felt her arm go around his waist. He looped an arm around her shoulders and rested his chin on the top of her head, just for a moment.

"You good?" she mumbled against his chest.

"Yeah," he sighed, a little reluctantly. He liked this; liked having her wrapped in his arms.

But he sensed he was on borrowed time, fortified by some calories and hydration, and the Tylenol kicking in just a bit. He made his way to the bathroom, pleased that he only had to reach out to steady himself against the wall once. As he'd thought, the water felt amazing on his restless, aching muscles, turned as hot as he dared and the spray on full blast. On a whim, he reached for Jax's shampoo. The smell of her hair had captivated him from her first day on the island, and her toiletries had eventually landed in his - _their_ \- bathroom, instead of the guest bath in the hall. It was still new, and amazing, and it made him happy on some deep level, the simple domesticity of her shampoo in his shower, her toothbrush in the cup next to his. The lather was richer than what he was used to, and left his hair feeling softer. It was comforting, somehow, the familiar scent and the rich suds.

A sudden chill that threatened to turn into a full-body shake caught him off-guard, and he rinsed quickly and stepped out of the shower. Teeth chattering, he grabbed a towel and wrapped around his waist, hastily brushing his teeth and swiping at his armpits with deodorant. By the time he shuffled, damp, into the bedroom, he could feel his muscles trembling.

"Hey, come're," Jax said, reaching for him and nudging him to the bed. He was shaking now, no denying it, cold and pain settling into his bones, the respite of the hot shower completely gone. She was deftly guiding his feet into his boxer briefs, and then with a gentle press against his shoulders, he was horizontal. He automatically lifted his hips for her to pull his shorts into place, and he would have spared a thought for feeling . . . not embarrassment, no, but maybe self-consciousness at his weakness, except . . . she was projecting such calm matter-of-factness about the whole thing. He recognized it; he'd seen it in the field.

"You're good a'this," he murmured. He wanted to say more, wanted to express his admiration of her skills, but . . . the pillow was so soft, and smelled so clean. She'd changed the sheets, somehow, while he was in the shower. He was surrounded by the clean smell of detergent, and now, by the smell of her shampoo. And it would be nice, it would, if he could just stop shaking. A crisp sheet and soft blanket were pulled into place over his shoulders. There was a rustle in the closet, and then the weight of a quilt - the one he'd come to think of as hers - draped over his body, tucked securely at his back as he curled onto his side in misery.

"I'm going to check your temp again," she said.

He let his eyes drift closed and stay closed, the light brush of her fingers against his cheek, tucking the thermometer into his ear was enough to keep him oriented.

"Holding steady," she said. "Tylenol is working."

"What if - is anybody else - Danny . . ." He was mumbling, rambling, but his brain was firing off warnings and cautions - what if he was sick because of something they'd been exposed to? What if it wasn't just a virus, it wasn't just him? Also, who would -

"Hey. I called Danny, told him you weren't coming in. No one else is sick, Steve. Look at me," she ordered gently.

He opened his dry, aching eyes, and met hers. She was crouched, eye level, next to the bed.

"No one else is sick," she continued. "It wasn't an exposure, the team is okay. They will be fine without you until you're better. Danny will text me - me, not you - if something urgent comes up."

"M'sorry," he said. "I just - if I just rest, a little - by th'safternoon, I -"

"Shhhh. Best case scenario, this is a twenty-four hour virus, and that means by this afternoon, maybe your fever will have broken and you can come downstairs. And rest on the sofa."

His groan sounded pathetic in his ears, and his eyes shut without his permission or control. The last thing he was aware of was the comforting weight of her hand on his stiff, sore neck, and then the inexorable pull of sleep.

*#*#*#*#*

Jax indulged in a quick shower while the sheets were in the wash, and a hastily improvised soup simmered on the stove. A muted ping on her phone alerted her to a text from Danny.

 _::DW::How's our boy?::_

 _::JN::Fever. Pulse, resp a little high, mild congestion. Typical of virus.::_

 _::DW::Need anything?_

 _::JN::Nope. All set. Thanks though.::_

 _::DW::Listen. Just - be careful. He gets feverish, I worry._

 _::JN::I know Danny._

 _::DW::I know you know, I just - you know._

 _::JN::Go do task force stuff. Got this under control._

She moved around the room as quietly as possible, setting her phone aside and fetching her glasses and laptop. With a sigh, she settled into the chair and started pecking her way through the back-log of HPD SWAT Medic incident reports.

*#*#*#*#*

 _He knew it was inevitable. They'd run out of water over thirty-six hours before. He'd discussed it with Nick, of course, weighed out the options - likely infection from the water versus certain life-threatening dehydration without it. And when the thirst had overcome them, they'd taken small, cautious sips and hoped for the best._

 _Hoped they could reach the new extraction point before their symptoms rendered them immobile._

 _They'd come close, close enough that they were going to make it, but only by dint of their SEAL training and his urging which, in the last hour, had bordered on cruel. He hated it; he knew his men hurt as badly as he did. The pain was all-encompassing; fever ache that settled and dug in to every single fiber of muscle and joint. Even his eyelashes hurt. There was no choice. They had to keep going. He forced leaden legs to keep moving, forced his spine to keep him upright despite the searing pain. Ignored the nausea and the cramping - there was nothing left to bring up or shit out now, anyway. The heat was suffocating, making him claw helplessly at his gear, but his fever-addled brain couldn't decide if stopping to take some of it off would help or not, so he just kept taking steps._

 _If they slowed down, they wouldn't make the extraction._

 _If they didn't make the extraction, they died._

Soft, cool hands pressed against his cheeks, followed by a rougher feel, a wet cloth. A weight was lifted from him, and cooler air drifted over his body. He shivered, but it helped. He needed to check on his team, affirm that they'd all made it to the extraction.

"Nick? Freddie," he mumbled, struggling to open his eyes and sit up.

"Hey, whoa. Steve, stand down."

The nurse called him by name? That was unusual . . . unless he was in Landstuhl. Again.

He blinked, sweat stinging his eyes, and struggled against the sheets wrapped around his legs. A cool hand wrapped around the back of his neck, another pressed against his chest - not restraining him, just enough to ground him.

"Steve, I need to know you're with me."

Bracing his heels against the mattress, he pushed himself to sit up against the headboard. A thumb stroked patiently against his jaw, another hand still pressed lightly against the center of his chest.

"Hey, you with me?"

He blinked until his eyes agreed to focus, expecting to see a nurse in familiar tech blue camo. Instead, he was staring into intense green eyes, magnified by reading glasses, and surrounded by a haphazard tumble of red curls.

"Jax," he sighed.

"You're safe."

"Yeah. Yeah, I . . . there was . . ."

"Hmm. An extraction point," she said softly. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hip pressing into his, and she blotted at his overheated, tacky face with the blissfully cool washcloth. "Your fever's breaking, that's why you're so hot."

He focused on her, willing away the lingering sensation of oppressive jungle, the smell of rotting vegetation still caught at the back off his throat.

"I'm - sorry, I'm . . ." He rubbed a shaking hand over his face, not entirely sure what he was trying to say, or ask.

"You're home," she said. "Okay? You're home."

And then her arms were wrapping around his shoulders, carefully, and pulling him close, tucking his head into the crook of her neck.

"Yeah," he murmured, closing his eyes and letting himself drift back toward sleep, trusting her to have his six. "Yeah . . . this is home."

*#*#*#*

Credit for any good bits go to the lovely and talented AriesTaurus who patiently and partially beta'd my frustrated and out-of-tune muse, and blame for the rest is all on me, because I got restless and impatient, stopped in the middle of editing, and just . . . slapped it up here.


	5. Lunatic Entanglements

A/N: Formatting glitches galore - let's see if the umpteenth try is the charm. My apologies.

This is a stand-alone McDanno short.

*#*#*#*#*

"What. The hell. Are you doing?!"

Steve made a coordinated effort to remember how to breathe, and propped up carefully on an elbow. The sky was still spinning in circles overhead, but it was moving much, much slower now. Or maybe it was just the movement of the earth he felt, seeing as how all six plus feet of him was in personal contact with terra firma. There were a lot of moving pieces, was the point, and he was having trouble parsing them out in a way that made sense.

Firstly, Danny was standing over him, hands on his hips, the wind - which was definitely a factor in the situation - fluffing his hair up and the sun backlighting the wayward strands, making him look like a compact avenging angel. Also first was the fact that Chin was helping Kono up - oh, thank God, she looked relatively unharmed. Steve collapsed back on the ground in relief.

"Hey!"

It was Danny again, and it was his _oh my God, I'm partnered with an idiot who's hurt himself again, somebody call a bus_ 'hey'. Steve would know that 'hey' anywhere, it was as reliable as the sun rising in the east. A shadow fell over his face, and oh, yeah, that was much better, that helped his splitting headache. Which was another one of the pieces . . . where was he? Oh, yes. First - first, he had a concussion. That was the third first. Next, Danny and Chin were already here, and - he propped himself up again, this time with Danny's hands steadying him, because Danny was crouching next to him - yes, there it was, that damn briefcase. Actually, that was the very first first, their perp having been old school which meant the evidence they needed had to be physically recovered.

"The first thing I wanna know is, how bad are you hurt?"

Right. Danny had his own idea of first, but self-assessment, that actually seemed like a good place to start. There was pain, a lot of it, mostly in his head and - oh, holy shit - apparently a great deal in his knee.

"Okay, hey, hold still."

Danny's voice had gone softer, this 'hey' was the _oh no, babe, not again_ 'hey' which usually meant at least one night of painkillers and muscles relaxants, which invariably meant Danny stayed over to be sure he didn't fall down the stairs or get caught in one of his nastier nightmares. Steve set aside the vague sensation of happy anticipation that accompanied the idea. Injury inventory roughly complete, he turned his attention to the next piece.

"Kono," he managed. Damn the briefcase, if Kono got hurt -

"She`s fine," Danny assured him.

He squinted past Danny, and sure enough, Chin had untangled Kono from her lines and she was helping him secure the —

"Briefcase." That's right, that was the first thing first.

"We got it," Danny said. "That`s not my first priority right now, babe."

"Too many things are first." His head ached with trying to keep up with it all.

"Which brings me back to my first question. What the actual hell were you doing, jumping out of a plane?"

"Jerry sent me the GPS coordinates when the tracker activated," Steve said. "There`s — there`s no access, Danny, how —"

"Oh my God. No roads, so you went straight to parachuting in? This is why I can`t let you out of my sight. Did it never occur to you — I can't."

Steve was gaping at Danny, he knew it, he just couldn't find it in himself to . . . not gape. He ran through his mental checklist again. First, they had the briefcase. Second — ah, there, improvement, good, his mind was starting to feel like an Abbot and Costello routine — Danny and Chin had the briefcase before he and Kono had even landed. Or crashed, in his case.

"How? You got here first. How?" And he was making progress, now, putting the pieces together.

"On bikes. You may recall, Chin is an excellent rider, and I'm proficient in a pinch. Stop, would you — hold _still_. How, Steven, how even did you get — hold still, I said, you are all tangled up, you`re making it worse." Danny`s strong hands and deft fingers were extricating him from the tangle of parachute line, carefully, oh, so carefully, moving one limb at a time, those hands moving expertly and thoroughly over his arms, shoulders, torso, checking for injuries as he went. When he hissed in pain at Danny moving his leg to unwrap the line from his boot, Danny murmured nonsensical sounds of comfort.

"Wind gust," Steve said, through gritted teeth.

"I was drifting toward the trees," Kono said. She and Chin were standing over him now, too, Kono looking concerned and Chin — damn him — looking serene and slightly amused. "He delayed opening his chute, managed to give me a push to the clearing. I'm sorry, Boss."

"`S`okay, you did good for a beginner," Steve said.

"Can I practice, so it works better next time?" Kono asked, enthused.

"Next — no. There`s no next time. The two of you adrenaline junkies don`t get to make decisions together. Help — Chin, get — thank you — this is ridiculous —"

Steve unsheathed a K-bar from his boot and sliced through the lunatic entanglement of parachute line. Danny was taking forever.

"Steve?"

"Yeah, Danny?"

"How did you and our rookie plan to get off this mountain with the briefcase? And please don't tell me there's a cliff nearby that you were going to jump off next."

Steve rolled his eyes and regretted it. "Don't be ridiculous. I called in a favor with the Coasties. Chopper should be here any minute to pick us up."

Danny shook his head. Speechless. That was unusual.

"Kono, did it cross your mind to use ATVs?" Chin asked curiously, checking her over one more time for injuries.

She shrugged. "Yeah, but Steve mentioned jumping in and . . . Come on, it sounded like fun."

She grinned down at Steve, their arms long enough to manage a fist bump.

Danny sighed.

The sound of approaching rotors caught Steve`s attention and he tried to stand up, his knee buckling underneath him as the earth and sky somersaulted over each other.

"I`ll, ah, ride down with Chin," Kono said, patting Danny's arm sympathetically. "You better stick with the boss. That knee looks axed."

*#*#*#*#*

They were finally home, Steve's knee wrapped and braced and scheduled for more xrays and examination the next day, when hopefully some of the frankly horrifying swelling would be down. He was ensconced on the sofa, knee propped, blinking up at Danny through those ridiculous lashes and tugging a light blanket around him. Injuries and pain killers always did this to Steve, made him chill, and the fact that Danny knew that as well as he did made him sigh at the frequency of it all.

"So, what did we learn today, Steven?"

"Parachuting is not necessarily the first and best option to access an area without public roadways," Steve sighed. Twenty minutes of Danny's ranting succinctly summarized in one sentence. Danny was honestly impressed - Steve had been paying attention.

"Steve, you gotta — I don't get it. You're not still in the SEALs. You don't gotta prove anything to us."

"It's not that, Danny," Steve said earnestly. "It's just . . . I don't know. Maybe I'm just not used to anything ever coming easy to me."

"You saying you just, what, default to the most complicated and dangerous options?"

"Something like that," Steve shrugged and averted his eyes, a barrier hastily thrown up between them. Danny didn't much bother with barriers, ever, especially not where Steve was concerned. He reached out and cupped Steve's jaw in his hand, turning his face to look in his eyes. He was shocked to see a sheen of moisture there, and Steve trying to wrest out of his grip.

 _The most complicated and dangerous options_ . . . For a SEAL, serving under DADT, that would have been . . .

The pieces clicked into place; Danny hadn't made detective with flying colors for nothing.

"What if it didn't have to be so complicated, or dangerous?" He rested his hand on Steve's shoulder, the one that had been least jacked up by his disastrous jump. "What if, instead of taking years off my life and turning my hair gray by diving out of a plane, you could hop on an ATV with me and ride? Would you be interested in that option, or . . . would that not be enough adrenaline for you?"

Steve swallowed, his Adam's apple moving in the long line of his throat. Danny let the backs of his fingers trace up the side of Steve's neck and slip into his hair.

"With you?"

Danny beamed. Steve wasn't in Naval intelligence for nothing, either, he'd picked right up on the most important preposition in the whole paragraph.

"Yeah, with me. What if . . . if something wasn't complicated or dangerous after all, would it still hold your interest?" Danny chewed on the inside of his lip. This . . . this thing that had been simmering between them, the whole time, since the first draw of weapons, the first arm lock, the first punch . . . if it just the danger that attracted Steve, Danny would continue to keep that last shred of distance in place. But if not . . .

"Yeah, Danny. I'd be interested."

Danny leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Steve's poor, abused, aching head. The doctor had said moderate concussion, and Danny had thanked all of the saints he could think of that even in his impulsiveness, Steve had, as usual, geared himself and their impressionable rookie up properly. His helmet had saved his life when he'd landed in a heap, not nearly slowed to an ideal velocity. Danny's hands threaded through Steve's surprisingly soft hair and rubbed gently, and Steve let out a soft sigh of relief.

"What if it could be so very, very uncomplicated?" Danny whispered. He tilted Steve's head and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, then sat back to give Steve some space to consider.

Steve's eyes went wide, his hands coming up to fist in the fabric of Danny's t-shirt.

"What if it was as simple as us feeling the same way about each other, hunh? What if it was that simple?" Danny murmured, searching Steve's eyes.

"Danny," Steve said, as if Danny's name had all of the answers to the universe in it. "Could it?"

He looked stricken, as if life was just about to play some cruel joke on him, and Danny had to tamp down on a flare of anger at all of the people who'd made Steve believe that happiness just wasn't something he was allowed to have.

"Yeah. Yeah, babe, I think it can be that simple," Danny said, and he leaned in again, and the second kiss was even better than the first.

"But - Rachel, and Grace," Steve said, mumbling against Danny's lips, hanging on to Danny for dear life. "What if - and Grace, she -"

"Now see, there you go," Danny said, and he couldn't believe it, he - Danny Williams - the optimistic one in this scenario. "You're making things complicated. Gracie loves you as much as I do."

Steve blinked owlishly at him and Danny realized how much he'd given away in that comment.

"Danny?" Barely over a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"I love you, and Grace. Like . . . in a way that feels very complicated and dangerous," Steve said. But his hand was wrapping around Danny's neck, pulling him in, and yeah, okay, Danny had to admit that Steve had a way of kissing him that did contain more than a hint of adrenaline.

"Relationships are complicated," Danny said, when he gathered enough brain cells back to form the sentence. "I'll grant you that. Love, though, love is simple. And . . . Steve?"

Steve was busy, apparently, memorizing the outline of Danny's biceps under his curious fingers, so it took him a moment.

"Yeah?"

Danny cupped his face again, thumb stroking over the day's stubble as he looked into Steve's eyes.

"Loving me, loving us, is not dangerous, Steve," he said. "Because we're not going anywhere."

And, oh, Steve moved pretty impressively, Danny thought, for someone moderately concussed and with various and sundry damaged ribs, tendons, and ligaments. He had a passing thought to what possibly very creative accommodations could be made when -

"Ooff." The breath was knocked out of him, as he landed, mostly on the floor, with a considerable amount of Navy SEAL muscle on top of him. He looked up, awkwardly, over the bulk of Steve's shoulder, to see his ankle and Steve's knee, tangled in the blanket.

"Sorry, Danny," Steve said, as he tried and generally failed to keep his weight on his least-injured elbow, and settled for nuzzling happily into Danny's neck.

"I take it back. Being anywhere in your general vicinity is dangerous, and hazardous to my health," Danny declared. "And Smooth Dog? Definitely ironic."

*#*#*#*#*

They decided that the sofa was just too awkward, and hazardous. Danny helped Steve up the stairs, which took a ridiculous amount of time and energy, partly because of Steve's injuries, and partly because of the distraction of wandering hands that had been given the sudden liberty to touch, and explore.

Steve was as comfortable as could be expected; his knee propped expertly by Danny, who'd learned from painful experience the ideal angle and pillow arrangement. Danny was next to him, head propped on an elbow, his blond hair uncharacteristically unstyled after he'd used Steve's shower and helped himself to one of Steve's softest t-shirts and a pair of boxer shorts.

"Stay?" Steve said. He was already drifting on pain meds and muscles relaxants, and a healthy surge of endorphins. "I just want . . . want you to stay."

"Don't I always, when you're banged up and doped up?" Danny said, tracing a finger over one of the darkest bruises around Steve's wrist.

"Not like this, not right here. Not in my bed, where I'd always wanted," Steve murmured. He couldn't resist, he reached out and ran an inquisitive finger through Danny's soft, soft hair. "I know we can't . . ."

Danny chuckled. "You're so high, babe, I think we'd have a question of consent. It's okay. Sleep. Not going anywhere, remember?"

Danny reached over and turned off the light, and Steve felt his hand wrap so gently, so carefully around his arm. He sighed in contentment and let his eyes close. As he drifted off to sleep, the thought crossed his mind that he had absolutely, positively no clue whatsoever about being in a relationship with - well, honestly, with anyone, his friends-with-benefits arrangement with Catherine hardly counted - but thanks to DADT, he'd never come close to acting on the few attractions he'd barely admitted having to less than a handful of other men. And this, this was _Danny_ , and despite the assurances that this was simple, and safe . . . well. This was way too precious to risk.

"Danny?" he mumbled, settling into the pretty awesome Tramadol haze. "I don' know anything about . . . but . . . you know. Don' worry. I'll . . . gather intel."

"Excuse me?" Danny mumbled, sleepily. It had been a long day, after all.

"About . . . you know. With a guy. 'S'new . . . territory. Be like . . . like an op. Mission."

He thought he heard decidedly unhappy sounds coming from Danny, but he couldn't force his eyes open now, so he'd put that first on the list tomorrow.

Yep, _Operation Love and Sex with Danny Williams_ would commence shortly after daylight, or as soon as the muscle relaxants wore off.

Like Danny said, uncomplicated and safe. What could go wrong?


	6. Especially History

Danny looked frantic, often enough. He knew this, he knew that his body language, the frenetic energy that emanated off him on a random day, the tendency of his face to pink up under the slightest stress, the god-forsaken disaster that ensued if he gave in to the impulse to run his hands through his hair - yeah, he knew that he looked frantic often enough.

The truth was, though, it was unusual for him to be genuinely frantic. The day his partner was shot. The day Gracie was kidnapped. The day Jenna called and said that Steve was with her in North Fucking Korea with Wo Fucking Fat. The day he found the Marquis empty, found blood, tracked Steve and found him, on the floor, water dripping, blood dripping, still, silent -

Yeah. That day. That day ten days ago.

And then, too soon, much too soon after - today.

"We'll find him, Danny," Chin said.

Danny took a shaky breath. "Well, I was a lot more confident of that seven hours ago, before all of HPD and even the park rangers turned up nothing."

"Maybe Kono will find something at one of the breaks."

"He shouldn't be surfing. Hell, he shouldn't be out of the hospital. He's still got God-knows-what in his system - Grover, anything?"

Grover shook his head as he walked up to Danny and Chin, bent over the smart table, looking at - nothing. There was nothing to look at.

"I checked every hospital, every clinic . . . nothing. I'm sorry, man."

Danny's hands white-knuckled the table, his head hanging down in defeat.

"So, he's not injured," Chin offered hopefully.

"No. He's not at a hospital," Danny snapped. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, man. It's just - I'd have rather found him at a hospital, bleeding from trying to pull some stupid shit, rather than just -"

Chin's phone rang out and he grabbed at it.

"Kono? Anything?"

He was silent a moment.

"Hold on, I'm putting you on speaker."

Kono sounded exhausted. She'd been canvassing every break on the island, on the off chance that Steve had decided to seek out a stronger surf than the calm waters behind his house offered.

"Couple guys thought they saw a Marquis early this afternoon, said a guy who looked military got out, went to Mamo's surf stand. Mamo wasn't working today . . . said the guy got back in the Marquis and drove toward the closed down pier."

"They recognize Steve's photo at all?" Chin asked.

"Nah, brah, they'd worked their way through most of their cooler," she said. "Said they thought the guy was wearing a ball cap and shades, but his bearing looked like a local military. I'll go to the pier, check it out."

"No," Danny said quickly. "Kono, if Steve's . . . if he's not himself . . ."

"You think I can't take him?"

"Kono, all of us together couldn't take him," Danny said. "I'm on my way, meet me at Mamo's and point me to the pier."

Danny trudged toward the door, not looking back, not waiting to give Chin or Grover a chance to argue with him. As the elevator doors closed, though, he called out to Chin.

"And get the tech guys to work up a way to low-jack that damn Marquis. I'll do it behind Steve's back if I have to. I'm not spending another day like this."

The doors closed with a whoosh before they could respond.

"You want me to go with, Danny?" Kono asked. She rubbed at her eyes, exhausted but determined.

"No, lemme handle it," Danny said.

"Well, you're the Steve-whisperer." She grinned at him, a flash of dimples and white teeth in the gently fading light. "So, about a mile past the 'no entry' sign. There used to be public parking. It's overgrown now, but enough people still sneak out that . . . well. If you don't find him, there's space enough still to turn around. Want me to wait here?"

Danny thought for a moment. If Steve was there, and hurt . . . he might need a hand.

"Yeah, in case the big idiot's gotten himself dehydrated or infected," Danny sighed. "I'll call you when I find out whether or not he's holed up there."

Danny sighed in relief when he saw the Marquis, until images of the empty driver's seat, and a puddle of Steve's blood filled his mind. He held his breath as he got out of the Camaro, slowly, his gun unholstered, safety off. He made his way to the car, cleared it. No sign of Steve.

He approached the pier cautiously, muttering.

"So help me, Steven, if you've fallen through a rotted board, I'm gonna . . ."

Finally - finally - he caught a glimpse of long legs, crossed at the ankle, the rest of the body hidden from view, but apparently leaning up against the ancient pier house. He climbed the stairs cautiously.

"Steve?" he called out, as he reached the top.

"Wha - g'way, Dn'y."

"Yeah, I don't think so. You hurt?"

Silence. He rounded the corner, looked down. Steve was sprawled against the wall but seemed relatively intact. Danny could smell whiskey. He sighed and pulled out his phone.

"I've got him. Let Chin and Grover know. Have them tell - hell, I don't know. Let Chin figure it out. Thanks, Kono. Yeah."

He was tired, suddenly, so, so tired. Thumbing the safety back on his gun and holstering it, he let himself slide down next to Steve.

"Scared the fucking shit out of me, Steve, don't you ever pull that fucking stunt again, do you hear me? I know you've been through hell and back, but damn it, we had almost eight hours with no word from you, do you know - do you _know,_ Steve - what we were thinking, what -"

"Lef' you a note," Steve said mulishly.

"A - no. No, you did not leave me a note, that was the first thing I looked for," Danny said.

"I lef' - oh. Shit."

"Shit?"

"On the seat a'my car. The - the Marquis."

"Which you drove. To an abandoned pier. Without your phone, I might add."

"Phone's . . . in my truck."

"Yeah, yeah, we found those when we went to your house this morning," Danny said. "That's how we knew to have a BOLO on the Marquis, how Kono knew to ask every damn surfer at every damn break on the island if they'd seen it."

"M'sorry, Danno," Steve said. He turned red-rimmed, remorseful eyes to Danny. "Did'n mean to upset you."

Danny sighed. He was no match for those soft, sad eyes. Never had been, never would be.

"You can't do this, Steve, not when you've been taken, tortured . . . still not healed . . . you need time, space, you got it - but you got to tell us, okay, babe?"

Steve nodded. He picked up the mostly empty bottle of Jack Daniels and offered it to Danny.  
"No, thanks. You wanna tell me why you trespassed, risked injury, and got a jump start on liver damage?"

"Mamo used to bring me and Mare here when we were kids," Steve said. He stared out at the water, the first tinges of orange and magenta sunset sparkling off the surface. "Taught us to fish."

"That's nice," Danny said. "Nice memory. That why you were looking for Mamo today?"

Steve looked at him sharply and Danny couldn't help but laugh, in spite of the churning in his gut over Steve - Steve, the SEAL, the Commander, the control freak - letting himself become this vulnerable, this compromised - this drunk.

"Babe. Five-O. Detective. SWAT Captain. Lieutenant. And Kono. Who, by the way - should probably have a promotion by now, but I'll remind you of that when you're sober. Yeah, we know you went looking for Mamo."

"Wanted to . . . talk to him," Steve mumbled. He hesitated, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. "Show'im this." He thrust the paper at Danny and took a swig out of the bottle, frowning when it didn't yield more than a small swallow. He put it down next to his backpack with exaggerated care.

Danny smoothed the paper on his lap. "What am I looking at here, Steve?"

"DNA tes' results."

Danny felt Steve stiffen his spine, his shoulders going rigid somehow, even in his impossible slouch against the pierhouse wall. The paper was upside down, still, but Danny felt a chill creep into his chest, a hollow in the pit of his stomach. He turned the paper the right way. Steve sat preternaturally still beside him, waiting.

No. _No, it wasn't possible_. What he was reading - Steve's name, WoFat's name . . .

"He w's m'brother, Danny."

"No, Steve, that's not -" But Danny knew what he was looking at. He'd looked at enough DNA samples, enough lab reports, enough matches, to know exactly what he was seeing. Unless -

"Someone could have falsified this, Steve, where -"

Steve shook his head, emphatically. "I had Max check. Max did this. For me. No mistakes."

Danny stared at the paper. If Max had run it, at Steve's request, the likelihood of error, between two of the most careful men he knew - well. There was little likelihood of error. Which meant the document in his hand was accurate.

Which mean that WoFat was Steve's - he looked at the paper again.

"Your half-brother," he whispered. "WoFat was - when did you find out?"

"Back - after my mom wen' to visit him. WoFat. I . . . couldn't understand. Why - why she wanted contact with him . . . why -"

"WoFat told you that she came to apologize for killing his father," Danny said. "She killed - his father."

"Who, apparently - well, obviously - she'd had - you know." Steve made a vague, helpless gesture.

"Steve." Danny, for once, was speechless. What could he say? _I'm sorry he was your brother. I'm sorry your mother was . . . who she was. I'm sorry everyone lied. I'm sorry you had to -_

"Oh God, Steve, you - he didn't give you a choice, you know that, right? He didn't give you a choice."

Steve slumped against the wall, a strangled sound forcing its way out of his throat.

"No one ever has, Danny. No one's ev'r given me a choice. Not my mom, when she played dead, not my Dad, when he sen' me away, not WoFat when he - when 'e -" Steve pressed the back of his hand against his mouth and pulled his knees up against his chest.

Danny put a hand on his back, between his shoulders, and Steve tried to shrug him off.

"Don't, Danny. Wanted to be alone for a reason, okay?"

"Yeah, I get that. But you've been alone for an entire day, while the rest of us went slowly out of our minds in panic, and . . . babe, I don't think alone has worked out so well for you."

"Don't."

Danny didn't listen, he didn't think Steve's insistence carried much conviction. He didn't move his hand, either, and Steve had stopped shrugging him off. He could feel the hitch in his breath, from the pain of breathing against the still-healing ribs, from the barely contained emotions.

"When did you find out?" Danny asked quietly. "Just today?"

Steve shook his head. "I - I've known."

"After - after?" _Please, dear God,_ Danny thought _, please don't tell me he knew, please don't let him have known when WoFat had him, when he -_

"No. I've - I've known for almost a year. Mary doesn't know. She can't know, Danny, Mary can't know. Not now. Not yet. It's not fair to her." Steve, aided by his unfair metabolism and his mental fortitude, wasn't even slurring now - shocked back into sobriety, Danny thought, which, though necessary, was also a damn shame.

Danny didn't reply, because what was the point, really? There was absolutely nothing he could say that would make it better.

"We're gonna watch this sunset," he said, instead. "And then, we're gonna go back to your place, get you cleaned up, get some real food in you."

Steve chuffed out a mocking laugh. "That's going to fix things, then."

"No, it's not going to fix things. But it's what we're going to do, because I, for one, am concerned - very concerned, Steven - about getting splinters in my ass. This is a condemned pier. Condemned. Tetanus. Tetanus is a legitimate concern, here."

"I can give you a tetanus shot," Steve offered.

Danny gaped at him in amazement. Even half out of his mind, drunk on whiskey and grief, Steve was . . . so very Steve.

"No, thank you." He reached down his hand to haul up six feet of unsteady and wounded SEAL. Not for the first time, and, he was certain, not for the last, he wondered how this was his life.

So, the drinking was a bad idea, Steve realized, as he rode in the passenger seat of the Camaro. A really, colossally bad idea.

Although, if Danny had just left him the hell alone, like he'd wanted to be, he would have slept it off on the pier. He had a blanket with him and everything. But Danny being so very Danny - being such a damn good detective, for starters - of course he wasn't sleeping it off on the pier, he was riding shotgun, in the Camaro, a fifth of whiskey and not much else sloshing in his stomach. Sloshing.

Sloshing.

"Pull over." The words were barely out of his mouth before Danny had eased the car off the road, and Steve wrenched the door open, leaning out, and hurling the contents of his stomach onto the ground. God, it burned. He wretched and heaved, long after his stomach was empty. He was aware of Danny's hand on his back, rubbing gently. After a few moments, a water bottle was pressed into his hand. The cap had been loosened. He swished the first few mouthfuls around and spat them out, then let a few cautious sips down his raw, burning throat. It helped.

"You good now?" Danny's voice was soft. No judgment.

Steve nodded miserably and folded himself back into the car, closing his eyes and leaning against the headrest. He felt himself drifting a bit, a little numb, which was the whole point of the whiskey. Of course now that he'd puked a good portion of it back up . . .

He sighed as they pulled into his driveway. Maybe Danny would leave him in peace.

But Danny was coming around the back of the car and . . . pulling his go-back out of the trunk. Well. Shit. He wasn't going to be left in peace, then.

"Danny, I'm fine, really, I -"

"Fine. Fine? Fine, he says. You don't know from fine, Steve. Ten days. Ten days ago, Steve, you - you know what, I'm not gonna do this in the driveway. Come on. Get in the house."

"S'my house," Steve muttered, but he followed Danny up the sidewalk and onto the porch anyway. He could hear the DNA test print-out crinkling in his pocket.

"Shower. You reek," Danny said, not unkindly, pointing to the stairs. "I'm making you soup."

Steve headed to the stairs, too exhausted to argue. He hadn't slept, really, not in ten days, not since -

"Not tomato," he said, pausing on the first step. His mom always made him tomato, and tonight he just - he couldn't.

"Okay, no tomato," Danny said. He didn't break his stride on the way to the kitchen. "Too much acid."

Steve stripped and stepped into the shower. He turned his face into the spray, and panicked. He'd forgotten - well, more accurately, he'd dulled the memory of panicking every time, every damn time, that he stepped into the shower and the spray on his face morphed into water from the bucket, turned into WoFat's face, WoFat calling him _brother_ . . .

He dry heaved, but it pulled him out of his head, out of his panic, back to the present. He scrubbed up, quickly, keeping his face free of the spray, using his hands to soap and rinse his face instead. The burns from the cattle prod smarted under the soap and water. He dressed in soft track pants and an even softer t-shirt, hissing, still, as he pulled everything on over his abused body. The back of his neck ached. His ribs ached.

His _soul_ ached, he thought. And as it turns out, getting shit-faced didn't really help, not that much.

There was a bowl of soup waiting for him at the small kitchen table. He eased himself gingerly onto a stool and ate a few bites, Danny watching him silently, his hip propped against the counter. He hadn't even realized he was hungry, but the soup disappeared in moments. It eased the aching, empty spot in his gut.

Danny laughed softly, as if reading his mind.

"Sometimes, food helps," he said. "Metaphorically and literally. Wanna sit outside?"

Steve nodded and followed Danny out the back door. The sun was almost completely set now, casting its last dark purple light over the backyard. A few of the solar path lights were blinking on. Steve didn't need light. He could picture Danny's face well enough without it. Concern. Anger, but not at him.

"I'm so sorry," Danny said, finally, "that you carried this for all this time, alone. And I'm not talking about the last ten days. I'm talking about the last year. That you had this - this unbearable secret, and you thought you had to carry that alone."

"It's my problem, Danny. It's my screwed up family."

"And what are we, hunh? Where's all the lecture about ohana now? You think you don't got family that would have helped you with this?"

"How, Danny? How would telling you have helped?"

"I don't know!" Danny was gesturing now. "I don't know, Steve, but how did not telling us, how did that help? Hunh? Tell me that? How did that help? Did it make it better, easier somehow, that no one else knew?"

"Yes!" Steve was shocked at his own shout, but once he started, he couldn't put on the brakes. "Yes, it made it better, easier. Would you have wanted Gracie to be around - around someone who was - blood related, Danny - blood related to that? To WoFat?"

"What does - okay, wow, that is a stretch, even for your self-flagellating logic. I don't give a flying fuck about DNA when it comes to knowing what kind of man you are. You are nothing like him, you got that? Nothing."

"I - I killed him, Danny." Steve wanted to argue with Danny, wanted to shout back, tell him that he was wrong, he had to be, because what kind of man killed his own brother?

"Yeah. Yeah, I know, and I'm so sorry," Danny said. "Not because he's dead. But because he forced your hand. He tortured you, Steve. Tortured you, and drugged you, and . . ."

"The videos," Steve said.

"Come again?"

"The videos. The worst was . . . the home videos, I don't know how he -"

"Oh, God, your family movies, you said . . . he had family movies . . ."

"Me. Mary. My dad and . . . mom. I - he drugged me, and that room - that white room? And all I could think was, all that time, that whole time, while she was raising me and Mary, she - she - was thinking of him, missing him, wondering about him. She abandoned him, Danny." His voice broke. "Damn it." He leaned forward, cradling his aching head in his hands.

"Go ahead, babe, say whatever you feel needs saying." Danny's hand was between his shoulder blades again, warm, strong.

"She abandoned him, and then she abandoned me and Mary, and fuck it, Danny, if that doesn't make us brothers I don't know what does. The DNA, that's just an added cruelty, because it means she lied. She lied, the whole time, lied to everyone. And he - I think he knew. I'm pretty sure he knew, that we were brothers. He said it, I think he knew."

"I'm so sorry, Steve," Danny murmured. Steve was thankful, so incredibly thankful, that Danny wasn't trying to fix this because there was nothing, nothing he could say that would change the fact that -

"I killed my brother, Danny." He tried to hold back the wave of emotion, but it was no use. A year of the crushing burden of the truth, and then ten days, ten days of pain and sleepless night, and the lifeless eyes of WoFat, of his brother, looking back at him, was too much. He felt it, as powerful as any breaker on the North Shore, felt it crash over him.

He was pretty sure it was going to take him under, and like a rip tide, keep him under until he drowned in it, drowned in the grief and the anger, and the unbearable, unthinkable guilt.

Danny held on, the only way he knew how - with his own two hands and his litany of words, most of them nonsense, lots of them _I'm sorry,_ and _it's not your fault,_ and _go ahead, babe, let it out,_ and mostly _it's okay._ Even though it wasn't, it wasn't okay, not by anyone's standards.

And even for Steve, this was fucked up.

Danny let the words flow out, anyway, because between that and his firm grip on Steve's shoulders, it seemed to help, at least a little, if the way Steve had given in and collapsed against him was any indication. He felt Steve's breath coming easier, in deep gasps instead of choking gulps. He tried to pull his own thoughts together, tried to gather his wits so that he could respond to Steve with something coherent, something useful.

"What if he had a kid, Danny? Did I orphan WoFat's kid, the way Doris orphaned him?"

Well. _Shit_. Okay, he had nothing coherent or useful for that. And Steve had pulled away, was looking at him with those huge hazel eyes, his eyelashes damp.

"I don't know, Steve," he admitted. He felt gutted, could only imagine how Steve must feel.

"I don't know, either," Steve said, barely above a whisper. But honesty seemed to have been the best policy, because Steve looked marginally less devastated. Platitudes would have fallen empty onto the sand, anyway.

"Do you - want to find out?" Danny asked cautiously. What a clusterfuck _that_ would be. It would probably involve Catherine. Joe. Hell, maybe even Doris herself. But if it was what Steve wanted -

"No," Steve said slowly. "I don't think - I don't think knowing me, having any connection to me or my family, would be in their best interest. I - I would, Danny, you know I would, I would want to help, to make sure they were provided for but - I think, probably, it would bring them more harm than good."

"Sounds right, and . . . sounds like you've thought about it."

Steve nodded, wiped his hand across his face. "Yeah. Pretty much all I've thought about the last ten days. I . . . I don't know what to do, Danny, I can't get past it. Usually, I would, you know . . . "

"Bend the rules, call in some favors, find the answers you need?"

"Yeah. But I can't do that. Not this time. It's . . . it all got to be too much, you know?" Steve swiped his hand across his face again.

"I honestly can just barely imagine. I do know it's too much, way too much, for one person. You gotta let us in Steve, let us help you."

"My family -"

"We are also your family, if ohana is all it's cracked up to be," Danny pointed out.

Steve nodded and took in a breath, let it out in a shuddering exhale. Danny leaned forward, caught Steve's eye in the dim light.

"I have - if I may - an idea? Maybe?"

"Anything, Danny."

"Tomorrow, lemma call my Ma. I won't give details, I swear. But . . . well, if anyone knows if there's . . . a prayer, maybe? Something we could - I dunno. Light a candle, for . . . you know, for a child? Unless you hate the idea. I know you're not a religious -"

"No, I - I mean, yes. Yeah. That . . . that would be good, Danny. Thanks."

"Anything, Steve." Danny echoed the sentiment back to him. "Anything that doesn't involve you crawling into the bottom of a bottle, and scaring the shit out of us."

"I'm sorry, Danny."

"Look, I get it. I've been there, remember? It's - you think it's going to help, because nothing else helps, but . . . anyway. I know you know. I'm not here to lecture."

"Really?" Steve was smirking, now, and by God, if it wasn't the best sight Danny had seen all day, even if the smirk was forced, and accompanied by sunken cheeks and black circles under his eyes.

"You think you can get some sleep?"

Steve sighed, half shook his head, and made an aborted gesture with his hand.

"Tell you what, let me grab a shower, why don't you tackle another bowl of soup. Then we'll . . . turn on a game, or something."

"Not an infomercial? You sure?"

Danny let himself fall back into a parody of their usual banter as they made their way - slowly, painfully, on Steve's part - back to the house. It was a little stilted, a little awkward - but it was a start, a step back toward the light.

Steve insisted that the reclining chair and ottoman was easier on his ribs - and it was - and Danny didn't call him on it, didn't bat an eye, just fetched a pillow and light blanket for each of them. Steve accepted the proffered pain relievers and muscle relaxants, ignoring Danny's pointed glare at the almost untouched quantity still in the bottles. He'd drifted off at some point, apparently, during some long-past baseball game that Danny had scrounged from the bottom of the DVR list.

The flickering light sent him into panic for a moment, chasing images of a home movie featuring his dad, his sister, and a little boy that looked remarkably like WoFat. His hand went to his hip and he felt nothing there but the sting of burned skin, until his brain came online and resumed processing - the flickering light was from an episode of "Blue Planet", which, bless him, Danny had left running. He could hear Danny's soft, snuffling snores from the couch, and then Danny.

"You'kay?"

Steve reached for one of the water bottles that had been placed carefully next to his chair. He look a long sip as his pulse and respiration returned to normal. He closed his eyes, took stock.

"No. No, I'm not, really. I think . . . I think my choices today demonstrated that."

Danny sat up, mostly awake, but said nothing, just waited for Steve to continue.

"I think I'm going to have a hard time with this for a while, Danny." The admission was out of his mouth almost before he'd processed it, and it shocked him, a little. He looked at Danny, wanting to gauge his reaction. But Danny didn't look shocked.

"Well. Good thing I'm not planning on going anywhere, then," he said. He half-grinned at Steve, his hair standing up in a shocking display, his tired eyes full of so much patience and affection that Steve felt a sudden rush of thankful tears.

"I'm really fucking tired, Danny," he whispered.

"Of course you are. You have every right and reason to be. You think you can sleep a little more?"

Steve closed his eyes, took stock of that, too, and realized that with Danny there, with the huge burden of knowledge and guilt lifted, just a little . . .

Danny watched as Steve's eyes slid closed and he drifted back off, clearly mid-thought. He let out a sigh of relief. Steve needed sleep - lots of it - and if that was the only thing Danny could give him at the moment, it was at least a start. He did a quick mental check of time zones and then shrugged and pulled out his phone, anyway, his thumbs fumbling in the dark.

 _::DW:: Hey, Ma? When you get up, gimme a call plz. Need some advice._


End file.
